A Merric's Tale

Contents
A Merric’s Tale
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
ABOUT THE AUTHOR


A Merric’s Tale
Margs Murray
Copyright © 2020 Margs Murray
All rights reserved.
ISBN:979-8-61-152090-1


For Toni the Baloney Bender and the real Helena.
I love and miss you both.


Chapter 1
Hoofbeats and Zebras
“Forget the exotic explanations, Waverly. What did Dr. Seabury tell you? When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras! When you see something with an obvious answer, that is usually correct. Grandma’s medical diagnosis isthe most obvious, even if it is hardest to accept. This is true for most things in life. Stop being so stubborn.” Dad’s eyes zeroed in on me over his steaming cup of coffee.
I was not a stubborn person. Passionate, yes. Caring, yes. Stubborn? Never, but I couldn’t let this go.  “No, that can’t be true. If the whole world were horses, then there would only be a handful of diseases. Dr. Seabury is wrong!” My voice raised, and a stray curl flopped into my field of vision. I tucked it behind my ear and continued.  “I mean, someone must be the zebra. The whole premise must be wrong; otherwise, other diseases wouldn’t exist. For instance, there wouldn’t be Alien Hand Syndrome. There wouldn’t be Kuru.”
Dad smiled and leaned forward in the booth. “You get Kuru by eating human brains. Really? Bolstering your argument by citing cannibalism?”
An elderly couple at the next table glanced up from their breakfast.
“Not the point,” I said, lifting my feet from the sticky linoleum floor, and I leaned back in my seat. “Nearly impossible things happen every day; otherwise, no one would die of shark attacks, and no one would win the lottery. The impossible seldom happens, but it happens.”
“Alzheimer’s. Your grandmother has delusions of grandeur, extreme memory loss.  She can’t remember her husband of forty years, and she suffers from hallucinations. Now I love Helena like she was my own mother, but you can’t deny the symptoms.”
“Hallucinations of strange shadows,” I replied.  “I know the symptoms of Alzheimer’s, Dad.” I heard my voice getting louder, faster, but I couldn’t stop. “But they don’t explain her other symptoms—like her scorching body temperatures or the fact she has retained most of her memories for the last seven years. I didn’t say she’s not sick, just not with Alzheimer’s.”
Dad cleared his throat and looked around The Cracked Kettle Diner. Our argument carried over the hum of the morning crowd. Customers leaned in over their blueberry pancakes and bacon ends to get a better view of the history teacher and his daughter.  Brazen folks twisted in their booths.  In our little town, everyone knew everyone. My poor mother would soon get a play-by-play at Grandma’s hair appointment. I didn’t care. This was an argument worth having.
I knew what Dad would say next, the linchpin to his argument, the nail in the coffin. His voice clear and sure of victory, he said, “Yes, but how can you argue with the MRIs? The brain scans all show the correct diagnosis.”
“They’re wrong, okay,” I said, biting my nail. I fell back on my only explanation for the brain scans.  It was a weak argument, and I knew it. Suddenly embarrassed, a blush crept over my cheeks, and any second the creeping would erupt across my face and turn me into a blotchy red tomato. I wished I had a poker face for times like this, but my blush always gave away my inner emotions. I also wished I was smart enough to find a better explanation. Finally, I wished I had a medical degree instead of a newly printed high school diploma. Didn’t matter; I wouldn’t stop. Grandma was worth fighting for.
And I had fought for Grandma to anyone who would listen. My parents, sick of arguing, took me to meet Grandma’s specialist. But the second I walked into the office, I had known I didn’t have a prayer. His walls were plastered with awards and diplomas.  On his desk, he had a leather cup filled with gold metal pens. Yup. No BICs for this guy. No, sir. He was a specialty guy through and through. Special awards, special degrees, special pens. He was special, all right. And no specialist that special was going to take the word of someone still driving on a junior license.   Sold on his own diagnosis, he didn’t want to hear from me.
Dad ruffed up his brown hair and gave me a sad half-smile. He knew he had bested me, and he knew I knew it. No need to make me feel worse.  “Okay, Wavy. Let’s call a truce before Kat kicks us out.”
Kat, our usual waitress, took her cue and grabbed the pot of coffee and two menus and came right over from behind the counter before the fight started up again. She poured Dad’s refill and handed us the menus. “So, what’ll it be this morning?”
“The regulars,” we said, more or less together.
Kat laughed and put her pad back into the large pocket of her sea green uniform, and she tucked her pencil behind her ear.  “I don’t even know why I gave you these. Where’s the other two in your crew?” she asked and took the menus back.
“Simone took Helena to the salon,” Dad said.
“Like they even need it,” Kat said, and she put her hands on her waist.
Together, Grandma and Mom were the image of beauty, tall and slender with silky blonde hair.  Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit either. Most of my genetics were closer to my dad’s shorter stature and frizzy brown hair.
“They should be here any moment,” I told her.
“And how is Helena doing?” Kat’s voice lowered, and she placed her hand over her heart. People often did that when asking about Grandma. And it could get annoying, a whole town grabbing at their chest, but honestly, our family was very fortunate to have their support. We greatly